


hide your soul out of his reach (soldier keep on marchin' on)

by RUNNFROMTHEAK



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt Harry Potter, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Master of Death Harry Potter, Misguided Albus Dumbledore, NOT bashing, POV Harry Potter, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but definitely criticizing certain choices, persay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/pseuds/RUNNFROMTHEAK
Summary: What better for Dumbledore than a child with no sense of self-worth?What better than a child willing to throw his life away for any to show him kindness?What better for Dumbledore than a child who knew no love, burdened with a world of lives he’d value above his own?What better for Dumbledore than a child who lived only to die?After all, the only difference between a victim and a martyr was how far they were willing to go, and by the time Harry had walked to his death for the final time, he’d had nothing.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter & Trauma, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley
Comments: 28
Kudos: 238





	hide your soul out of his reach (soldier keep on marchin' on)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely people! I am working on several projects still, so random one-shots are going to be dropped randomly! This one is a couple weeks in the making, mainly because I kept switching to other projects and then coming back, so I'm super happy it's finally here!
> 
> This is heavily inspired by the harry potter - soldier tribute by spellbooked (link: https://youtu.be/oTcESDn0qm0) specifically the scene transitions from 0:43 to 0:45, because that is everything to me. It shows the blind faith of first year and the heart breaking acceptance of his final year, and I just,,, get emotional, okay? Anyways. Enjoy!

_“He accused me of being Dumbledore's man through and through."_ _  
  
_

_"How very rude of him."_ _  
  
_

_“I told him I was.”_

-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

* * *

Tom Riddle made him a victim, but Albus Dumbledore made him a martyr.

His existence has always been defined by tragedy, by death and destruction at a power-hungry creature’s – _not man, never man_ – hands. His earliest memory to this day is colored by a green brighter than his mother’s eyes, voiced by Lily Potter’s begging and then her screams. From the moment that bloody prophecy had been uttered he’d been a target. From the moment Severus Snape betrayed his childhood friend in hopes of saving her, he’d been a casualty. From the moment Voldemort killed his father, the moment he’d _‘marked Harry as his equal’_ , Harry had been a victim.

He’d survived, saved by love, only to live a loveless life surrounded by hatred and anger for nothing more than _breathing_.

He’d survived, by virtue of the endless parade of corpses shielding him from his delayed fate, leaving guilt to fester within his heart.

He’d survived, but to some ( _ ~~him~~_ ), the cost had been too high. He lived with Voldemort in his head, in his _soul_ , with nothing but that haunting green color to remember his parents by. ~~~~

_“…a **power** he knows not…”_

Before he could walk or speak, the entire world knew his name. Before he had his first friend, the entire world had a picture-perfect image of the Boy Who Lived – who he _was_ , who he _would_ be, and who he _should_ be.

Nobody expected a knobbly-kneed child half-starved with a cupboard under the stairs as a bedroom. Nobody expected a Slytherin playing at Gryffindor, with the mind of the former and the heart of the latter. Nobody expected _him_ , and that’s why he’d had such a hell of a time making friends.

 _Real_ friends, friends who didn’t give a shite about his name and called him out for being a git. Friends who were there in the hard times as well as the easy ones and didn’t run at the first sign of Voldemort.

At the end of the day, he didn’t have many real friends, as the Second and Fourth Year had made abundantly clear.

_Harry James Potter_ had all the ‘mates’ a bloke could want, but _Harry_ could count his actual friends on one hand. Because they expected things of him, they each had this image in their head of what he was supposed to do and who he was supposed to be. What magic he was to know and who he was supposed to know.

To them, he was a hero, a savior, but he’d always viewed himself as a victim.

By the time he came to Hogwarts, he’d been starved for love more than he was for food, desperate to cling to whatever scraps he could get. He’d needed proof he _wasn’t_ a freak, proof he _was_ important. The absence of parental love or guidance instilled him with a certain abandonment complex, a certain need for approval no one seemed able to satisfy. All he’d wanted was to belong, for someone to care, and that played perfectly into Dumbledore’s plans.

“ _Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a thirst… to prove yourself, now that’s interesting. . . . So where shall I put you?_ ”

Malfoy had been cruel, cruel to someone who had only shown Harry kindness, so he turned from that cruelty towards kindness. He’d had enough of cruelty with Aunt Petunia’s indifference and Dudley’s taunts and Uncle Vernon’s rage.

“ _Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that — no? Well, if you’re sure — better be GRYFFINDOR!”_

Privately, he wonders if Dumbledore would’ve been as approving if he’d been sorted into Slytherin, as the hat had desired. He wonders loads of things about his old mentor, few positive. There’s a wisdom that comes with age, and a bright-eyed first-year fresh from an abusive environment didn’t have the distance eighteen-year-old Harry has.

But Harry hadn’t had that wisdom at eleven, hadn’t had it until seventeen staring into that same green light.

“ _…I’m ready to die…”_

He hadn’t known it until he’d stared at the faces of those he loved, those who’d _died_ for him, and Dumbledore never crossed his mind.

Lily and James Potter, who died in his place the first time ( _ ~~his fault~~_ )

Sirius Black, who died to save him ( _ ~~his fight~~_ )

Remus Lupin, who died in a battle he prolonged ( _ ~~his war~~_ )

He’d always been Dumbledore’s boy, through and through, but as he faced his destiny, as he faced the end to his suffering and the end of his curse on others…

_“So when the time comes, the boy must die?”_

_“Yes…yes. He must die.”_

He realized some things, some lingering questions he’d never been brave enough to voice. Times where he’d thought Dumbledore completely barmy, _mad_ , and never gained any insight on his brilliant plans.

First-year, where Dumbledore guided him towards Voldemort, towards confrontation, for his destiny.

Second-year, where Dumbledore lied to him to preserve his childhood when he’d already almost died twice.

Third-year, where Dumbledore encouraged him to use the time-turner in place of an adult.

Fourth-year, when he still did not tell Harry his ultimate fate and allowed him to participate in a competition designed for adults that killed hundreds.

Fifth-year, where he kept Harry in the dark until it killed his Godfather, and even still did not reveal the death coming.

Sixth year, where he died and left Harry with a half-baked plan and a suicide mission he didn’t know about.

He hadn’t had time for anger or grief with the guillotine handing above his neck waiting to drop, the expiration date written in his blood, body, and soul approaching zero. He hadn’t had time to process, which is exactly how Dumbledore would’ve wanted it.

Harry didn’t get a chance to understand anything other than his death, and his role in ending the war.

He’d been raised as a weapon – a sacrifice – gathering the necessary skills under Dumbledore’s careful instructions. Forced into a home that was no home because it left him vulnerable but made him protected. It left him desperate for approval, for _Dumbledore’s_ approval.

“ _You’ve kept him alive so he can die at the **proper** moment… You’ve been raising him like a pig for **slaughter**.” _

_“Don’t tell me now that you’ve grown to care for the boy.”_

Dumbledore gained his trust through mystery, through kindness and distance and the appearance of being more than he was – _caring_ more than he did. He made Harry think he cared, think he valued him, to earn his loyalty. The Dursleys insured Harry had no sense of self-worth, no sense of restraint, and what better than a weapon with no limits?

From First Year, walking towards Quirrell and what he believed could be his death without hesitation, eyes narrow and trust and faith all he needed to straighten his spine, to every year after it.

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t question.

He’s walked to his death countless times in countless ways, sustained solely by the belief that _Dumbledore_ knew best, and that the information he didn’t know was for his own good.

But then Sirius died, because Harry wasn’t given the right information.

Then Dumbledore took him on missions, still withholding information.

Then Snape revealed the truth, the _real_ truth, with his dying tears

_“He must die… and Voldemort himself must do it. That is essential.”_

Walking to his certain death with eyes wide open and no faith left…

Staring into the creature that killed his parent’s malicious red eyes, watching his lips mouth the incantation Harry knew all too well as the world seemed to still…

He hadn’t had the time to process what being raised as a weapon meant, to see why Snape had seemed so disgusted at Dumbledore’s words.

But then, he lived.

And he watched the memories again and again, until they were seared into his own mind.

Maybe Dumbledore hadn’t known how the Dursleys would treat him, maybe he hadn’t known how miserable Harry would be…

Or maybe he _had_. Aberforth said Dumbledore didn’t know how to view people as opposed to chess pieces, and Snape’s memories showed a colder side of Dumbledore Harry had never seen.

_“What will you give **me** in exchange, Severus?”_

What better for Dumbledore than a child with no sense of self-worth?

What better than a child willing to throw his life away for any to show him kindness?

What better for Dumbledore than a child who knew no love, burdened with a world of lives he’d value above his own?

What better for Dumbledore than a child who lived only to die?

After all, the only difference between a _victim_ and a _martyr_ was how far they were willing to go, and by the time Harry had walked to his death for the final time, he’d had _nothing_.

No parents, no godfather, no uncle figure, no _family_.

Everyone he cared for died, without exception. His death spared many, but his hesitation cost many too.

His death had been welcome, at that point. The Boy Who Lived had wanted to die, and that had been a difficult pill to swallow.

“Must be difficult to cope without Dumbledore’s _favoritism_ ,” Zacharias Smith says with a snort, looking at McGonagall from the Eighth Year table. “Can’t earn points just for _breathing_ anymore.”

Harry stiffens as the table goes silent, feeling Hermione’s hand clutch his wrist in a death-grip.

“He doesn’t understand,” she murmurs, tracing patterns into his skin to calm him. “None of them do.”

Harry grits his teeth, silent.

“Come off it, _Smith_ ,” Ron fires back, “Just because a cowardly ponce like _you_ can’t earn points doesn’t mean there’s favoritism.”

“Like anyone buys _that_.” Nott crosses his arms and glares at Harry’s lightning scar. “We _all_ are aware of Dumbledore’s… preferential treatment towards Potter and Gryffindor.”

“You say that like I bloody well asked for it,” Harry snaps, hissing a little when Hermione’s fingernails dig into his arm. “You don’t know a damn thing about me, so don’t act like you do.”

“Such a hardship _that_ must be,” Smith fires back, and Hermione releases Harry’s hand with a small gasp as if burned. “Never-ending hero-worship that you don’t even have to _ask for_ —”

Harry’s burning, he must be, because his skin feels like an inferno and his heart’s beating as fast as it had when he died.

“I was Dumbledore’s fucking _pawn_ , Smith, _that’s_ why he practically handed us the cup every year! He had me raised by fucking muggles that _hated me_ so I’d be his perfect bloody soldier, his perfect weapon! He wanted me loyal to a fault even if it fucking _broke me_ , to the point where I willingly walked to my death to get it over with!”

And he stands, pulling away from Hermione and Ron because he just can’t deal with this, and his magic is hard enough to handle when he’s not on the verge of exploding—

“You, _all of you_ , seem to think that being the Chosen One is something I should be honored to be, that it’s something to _want_ to be! I never fucking wanted to be special! I never wanted to _die_ or to lose my parents and anyone who got too close because some sociopath with no nose said so! I never asked to be Dumbledore’s man, but I was because I trusted the man I knew, and now I don’t because he had me bred to _walk to my fucking death!_ Do you want a walkthrough, Smith, of what the Chosen One _actually_ is?! Do you want me to tell you how I can still hear my mother pleading with Voldemort to not kill me, that I can _see_ her die every time a dementor gets too close?!”

Smith’s face pales, and he doesn’t have to look at the staff table to _feel_ the Headmistress’s eyes, to see Hagrid’s pity. The fight and the anger and rage leaves him all at once because he’s so _tired_. He’s tired of the grief and the pain and the suffering. He’s tired of the eyes and the judgment and the condemnation and the praise.

“ _He is **just** a boy!”_

But he’s never been just a boy.

“Do you want me to tell you about the loneliness? About growing up either hailed as a Saint or hated as a madman? Do you want me to tell you what it’s like not being able to trust _anyone_ , because they might use you, or they might betray you to make a quick buck? Do you want me to talk about _loss_ , and _grief_ , because everyone you love, everyone you care about dies? Do you want me to tell you about my Godfather taking a killing curse to the chest and falling through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries because of _my_ mistake? What about death? Being marked for it, having to deal it out? Because _that’s_ what the Chosen One is too. It’s death and pain and grief and loneliness, it’s self-hatred and martyrization and a bloody parade of trauma. What is it you want, Smith? An apology?”

And Harry snorts because as much as he sometimes wants to drop to his knees and _beg_ for forgiveness, beg for redemption for his fuck ups and failures, Smith has _never_ deserved an apology. Smith has _never_ been a victim, not by his hand at least.

“You don’t _deserve one_ , you cowardly git. I have many things I regret, and none of them involve you so _shove off_.”

The Great Hall shakes as he runs, runs to lick his wounds and hide in peace, in the place where he lived and died and where he first saw Voldemort come back.

It’s cold.

Not as cold as before, when he’d carried the Resurrection Stone into the clearing and felt okay for the first moment since Sirius died, but cold still.

The leaves crunch beneath his feet, and he can _feel_ the draw of the resurrection stone, the remaining power trying to attract him. It’s tempting… tempting because he misses Sirius with a fierce longing, but he knows better. He does.

Harry treads the familiar path, watching the clearing open towards where he felt peace, where the familiar curse corrected itself.

“ _Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived… come to die.”_

He shivers, holding his too-thin school robes tight to his chest. He hadn’t had the foresight to wear a jumper underneath his robes or anything beyond the thread-bare shirt he’d bought while on the run.

They don’t understand.

They don’t know.

They don’t know what it’s like to be hated for years in a home you never asked for.

They don’t know what it’s like to watch everyone you care about die and suffer for nothing more than knowing you, caring about you.

They don’t know what it’s like to crave death, to want to die, and then have to come back.

He still doesn’t know he is outside of that death, outside of Voldemort’s death. Outside of Hallows and Horcruxes and a fragmented soul that never felt whole and still doesn’t. Outside of the titles he doesn’t want – _Boy Who Lived, Master of Death, Chosen One_ – and the things he’s lost.

Because he’s a victim, not a hero.

He’s an orphan shaped by trauma and grief and hollowness, desperately chasing after love and affection to make up for what he’d never experienced.

He’s a child shaped by manipulation and misplaced trust, seeking approval and guidance to redeem himself for sacrifices he didn’t have a say in.

And above all else, he is as Albus Dumbledore intended:

A martyr.

Too bad he didn’t stay dead.

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? curses? requests?


End file.
